


The Christmas Wish

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: A bit bleak, All is not lost, It's Christmas after all, M/M, Mary is gone., Okay really bleak, There is a tiny flicker of hope, there is no Rosie
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:36:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: Sherlock asks the universe for an impossible Christmas wish.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Comments: 30
Kudos: 26





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies in advance. Not my best work, but I wanted to offer some sort of hope for Christmas. 
> 
> Merry Christmas to all. Peace.

“Sherlock?”

Mrs Hudson’s soft voice interrupted his dark and ominous thoughts.

“What is it, Mrs Hudson?” He tried and failed to keep his tone away from annoyed.

“Will you be alright while I’m gone to my sister’s for the holiday? I could..”

“No, no, I’ll be fine. Thank you for the tree and the fridge full of food.” Annoyed tone it was, then.

“Promise you will remember to eat, dear?” 

Although grateful to his landlady’s thoughtful, but nearly obsessive vigilance, the invitations to dinner he occasionally accepted, forcing himself to eat if only to avoid her tuts and frowns, he nevertheless found her current chatter beyond his limit of patience.

For Sherlock’s part, he didn’t mention that all the food tasted like dry paper, and although her tea was acceptable, it was not John-made. He pretended, perhaps hoped, in the deepest part of his broken heart, that it might have been just a bit of affection that John felt toward him that made the tea perfect. It would never be perfect again.

“Sherlock?”

He waved her away with the fluttering of his hand. “Yes, Mrs Hudson, I will eat, have a lovely Christmas with your sister. I’m sorry I have no gift for you, I hope you understand. There are some notes on the desk for the cost of your train tickets if that is an acceptable gift. I’ll see you when you return at the first of the year,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of warmth he could no longer summon. 

Averting his gaze, he rose from his chair to press a kiss to her cheek. “Merry Christmas. My best to your sister.”

“Molly and Greg promised to stop in to see you before Christmas.”

“I’ve texted them. I’m not receiving visitors for the rest of the year,” he blurted. “Or ever again, I suppose,” he mumbled beneath his breath. He could feel her eyes on him, as though unsure if she should go or stay. “Off with you now, you don’t want to miss the train.” She patted his shoulder, squeezing just a bit, before turning to go, the notes left untouched.

Her footfalls paused a moment at the middle landing, then resumed until he heard the click of her door.

He remembered that nobody stayed.

The painful memories circled round him as he closed the two landing doors and returned to his chair to stare at the fairy lights around the mirror above the fireplace. He allowed the dark thoughts to consume him once more.

John loved the fairy lights. John loved Christmas. He wished John had loved him as much as he loved John. But John was gone now, he knew not where.

Nobody stays. The long ago fear mocked him again in the silence of the flat. 

The fake tree stared back at him from the table beside what would always be John’s chair. Too weary to hold the images at bay, Sherlock remembered.

It was nearly a year ago that John abandoned the flat he’d shared with Mary and the remnants of his life, taking only what would fit in his carryall. Sherlock had been on a case when John entered the flat to leave his keys beside the skull.

On the only grainy CCTV image Mycroft found, John never looked back as he turned the corner at Baker and Marylebone, and disappeared. He never came home again. 

Sherlock searched for months. He’d gathered John’s personal belongings and brought them to Baker Street, to John’s old room upstairs, and once he’d placed them into their rightful places, he closed the door. Mycroft took care of what was left. Sherlock never asked.

Finally, every effort to find John exhausted, Sherlock, his sorrow bone-marrow deep, lost heart. One day, two months ago now, he abandoned his search. Heartbroken, he withdrew from his consulting and turned away all clients to live the rest of his life alone once more. 

“All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.“ 

His brother’s irritating voice echoed in his thoughts, as though his insufferable sibling were in the room.

“If he doesn’t want to be found-” 

Mycroft’s opinions were not welcome, even if they were in his own head.

”Sherlock, it’s time to get on with your life.”

“What life, Mycroft? There is no life without John, there is nothing without him,” he bellowed, his anger at his brother’s most recent admonishment echoing within the walls of the flat.

Sherlock had only one saving grace when buried in his sorrow. He retreated to his Mind Palace to visit the wing where John Watson still lived, would always live. He opened the door and with an aching heart stepped inside to gather every John memory to himself. 

The soft strains of _I’ll Be Home for Christmas,_ wafted along with him, washing away his anger, but adding depth to his pain.

Still, as he navigated the hallways, in the deepest recesses of his broken heart, a tiny flicker of hope remained, unwilling to be extinguished.

John once asked for a miracle. Could there be one more? A Christmas miracle? 

“Just for me?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Though lovers be lost, love shall not - Dylan Thomas, And Death Shall Have No Dominion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve borrowed dialogue from The Lying Detective, Series 4 because it spoke to me. And there's a bit or two from A Study in Pink

In Portree, Isle of Skye, just off Scotland’s coast, John Watson held the hand of his dying patient. It wouldn’t be long now.

“Forgive the one who loves you.”

“There’s nothing he’s done that I have to forgive. He cares about me, as a friend, maybe still a best friend, but he doesn’t love me. He doesn’t feel things that way.”

“Perhaps you need to forgive yourself,” the man muttered.

Squeezing his hand, the doctor comforted as best he could, grateful to know what little he offered was appreciated by this lovely, elderly man who saw more than anyone. Well, not more than one anyone. This man, who shared a coincidentally familiar name, was in so many ways a painful reminder of the one John would never forget even if it were possible. The one he left behind without saying goodbye.

_Goodbye, John._

Even Sherlock, the supposed high-functioning sociopath, had thought to say goodbye. Before he left, before he jumped. 

He often wondered if the universe was, no, not possible, but it was sad that each had been hurt by being left behind. 

“How do you..how do you know so much about me?”

“Observation.”

John leaned closer. “I don’t understand.”

“Google, your blog. Between the lines, the rest was a guess.”

_I never guess. Yes, you do._

“You are an amazing man, William Scott.” Every time he said the name a stabbing pain seared his heart. No matter how much time or distance, he would always think of Sherlock as his best friend. Once he’d hoped they might be more, but their life interrupted, too many words were left unsaid and their timing never seemed to sync.

“Where will you go when I’m gone?”

_When I’m gone._

The doctor sat back in his chair. “I don’t know.”

“If you had one wish?”

“I had one miracle and I threw it away. I don’t make wishes anymore. It is what it is.”

William persisted, though his voice was failing as his breathing became more shallow. “If you had one wish, John. Christmas is a time for wishes.”

John let out a soft breath, didn’t have to think before answering. “Home. Well, the only place that ever felt like home, but that’s not possible now. I know it was not the place. He was my home. If I never see him again, Sherlock will always be my home.”

“Why do you think you can’t go home?”

The doctor allowed his patient’s soft voice to draw him away from the temptation to indulge in his self pity for too long. “Too much time has passed and I hurt him so much. I blamed him for my wife’s death.” In a hushed whisper, John continued, “I was so angry I could have killed him.” 

_That was enough to be going on with._

“Remember me when I’m gone, my friend, with a promise you will go home.”

The doctor brushed away an unexpected tear. “I wouldn’t know how to do that. Not anymore.”

“It will never be too late if you let your heart guide you.”

The doctor shook his head. “It’s too late for us,” he repeated, his voice breaking. 

“He’s waiting for you.”

“He was the best and wisest man I have ever known,” John gasped the words he knew to be true.

“There you are, my friend,” William said, his voice barely a breath. “There is your reason. Love is the only thing that matters. Follow your heart to where it wants to be.” 

The doctor stared at William’s face. “William? William, wait, I’m not ready to say goodbye.” William, his breathing labored, opened his eyes and held his gaze. “Going back is better than you are currently equipped to understand. Go home, my boy. Go home. Promise.” 

With those words, his patient closed his eyes for the last time. For a long while after, the doctor sat beside the bed holding fast to William’s hand.

_..While there’s still a chance. Because that chance doesn’t last forever. Trust me, it’s gone before you know it._

“Before you know it,” the doctor whispered.

He shook his head slowly. No. Best not. Promise to William or no, after all he’d done, there was no chance he’d could go home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A harbinger of something momentous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More borrowed dialogue...

Christmas Eve dawned bright and clear and hateful. Without The Work, and no expected visitors, Sherlock rejected showering or shaving and remained in his pyjamas just to spite the day. He did, however, brush his teeth after a breakfast of tea, scones and raspberry jam to honour John Watson. 

Two hours later dark clouds hovered low. Snow was predicted by mid-afternoon, so said the postal carrier who delivered an envelope for Mrs Hudson which required a signature. Sherlock shut the door in his face before the man had the chance to wish him a Happy Christmas. Tedious.

He slipped the letter beneath Mrs Hudson’s door. 

John would not approve. ‘A bit not good, Sherlock,’ he’d say, but John wasn’t there and never would be again. He didn’t much care that his drama queen was showing.

The grayer the day became, the darker his thoughts and the stronger the call from his Mind Palace to remember again the very best of times.

When next he surfaced, it was the dinner hour, but he wasn’t hungry.

Tea. John believed tea fixed most things. At the memory, Sherlock allowed a tiny smile to touch his lips. Sadly, it was no miracle, at least not the one he wanted and needed, but a momentary respite from the ache of longing in his heart.

Honouring his promise to Mrs Hudson, he ate, some sort of cold chicken and pasta he only picked at. It was passable, not anything like John’s thing with the peas. He added peas, but everything still tasted bland. Without life.

While he waited for the kettle to shriek, Sherlock did the washing up, then prepared a second cup. He built a fire in the grate by rote, not remembering the actual task. When he became aware of himself again, he discovered the cold cuppa sat on the small table next to John’s chair, as though at any moment, his doctor would settle there. When staring at the chair caused the back of his eyes to prickle, he changed the scenery by moving to the window.

Snow in London was a rare thing. Often, when it did make an appearance, it was scattered, barely more than snow showers. What he saw beyond the window was a blizzard, perhaps a harbinger of something momentous, he mused. It was Christmas Eve after all. A time for miracles as John always believed. Time was short for a miracle for him. 

The ache in his chest was just as painful as the lump in his throat as he watched the snow drift by the window. 

A lone individual pushing against the snow and wind paused on the opposite side of Baker Street. After a moment, the person seemed to look up, but it was impossible to be certain in the pale illumination of the street lamp. Sherlock leaned closer, pressing a hand, fingers splayed, against the window, silently demanding that the snow part long enough to see clearly. It did not acquiesce to his demand and the person moved on. No doubt one of his Homeless Network, he thought, his chest suddenly tight with disappointment.

Even as he chastised himself for foolishly considering such an impossible wish, Sherlock continued to watch the street for much longer than was advantageous for his own good. When he realised the pointless effort for what it was, he huffed his annoyance, but as he turned his head to walk away, movement on his periphery drew his attention. 

The passerby vacillated on the pavement opposite the door, glancing up at the windows at every turn. When the stranger raised a hand, as if in greeting. Sherlock’s curiosity got the better of him to the point of pulling on his dressing gown and stepping into his slippers, but before he could descend the stairs he heard the knocker tap softly against the door plate.

Certain it was a hopeful client unaware of his retirement, Sherlock threw open the door with more force than was necessary.

“I do not see clients. What do you want?”

Hidden inside a hooded jacket that was much too large, the obviously swaying visitor slowly lifted his head. Blue eyes filled with pain and anguish looked back at him.

“I want to come home.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rewoven tapestry of friendship.

Sherlock caught John before his knees hit the floor. With a supportive arm around him, he kicked the door shut and locked it. He easily lifted John into his arms, he’d lost weight, too much weight. 

Navigating the narrow stairs with John’s upper body cradled against his chest was awkward. Breathing hard by the time he got to the landing, Sherlock pushed through the door, deposited John, still in his too large coat, on the sofa. Removing sodden shoes and socks, he wrapped the afghan from the nearby chair around his feet. 

The wait for John to come back to awareness seemed endless as he sat on the floor beside the sofa. When John whimpered in his sleep, Sherlock rested his hand on his shoulder.

“It’s all right, John. You’re safe. Rest now.”

“‘m sorry,” John cried out.

“Shh. We’ll talk later.”

John folded his fingers around his wrist. “Don’t go.”

“I’ll not be far.”

“Promise..”

“I promise, John.”

“‘Kay.”

John drifted off mumbling some unintelligible words. Sherlock could only smile, the first genuine smile in a nearly year. If he knew how to be gobsmacked, he'd be absolutely that. He was absolutely that.

****

Strains of ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas’ shrouded John in his sorrow as he drifted in the in-between state. He lay still, holding fast to a dream from a happier time, yet aware of the outside sounds of someone nearby. The prickling behind his eyes warned him of tears near the surface. If he opened his eyes, his dream would drift away like smoke, leaving him alone and afraid. When the tears finally slipped free, a sob lodged in his throat.

The sound of padding footsteps approached, faded away when a warm hand rested on his shoulder. 

“John?”

Squeezing his eyelids tighter to stop the flow of tears, John gasped for breath. Hearing voices in his head was a phenomenon familiar to him, but not a good thing to encourage. 

“John, you are not dreaming. Open your eyes.”

“You’re not here, you’re in my head, just like Mary was.”

“On the contrary, you idiot, I am, and you are, here in our Baker Street flat. Open your eyes, John.” The words were stern, but not without concern.

Slowly, so slowly, for fear that he had lost his mind, John obeyed. As his fuzzy head and vision cleared, Sherlock materialised beside him.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“How did I get here?” John held his gaze simply because he’d so missed those beautiful, always alert eyes. The man was never at a loss for words, so he waited. When Sherlock narrowed his eyes, inhaled deeply, and then paused for a beat, John knew his friend would do what he did best. 

“When I opened the door, you announced that you wanted to come home. You suffered a syncopal episode. Once that passed, you slept for three hours. In that interim I emptied your carryall and found your travel information. You first left Portree to ferry to the mainland. From there you took the train, innumerable stops, twelve hour trip to London. No receipts for food, so you haven’t eaten. Mrs Hudson would not be pleased were she here, nor am I.”

John swiped at a lingering tear. How he’d missed Sherlock’s impatient responses. 

“That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think?” John threw Sherlock’s own words back at him.

Sherlock smiled, obviously appreciative of John remembering an off-hand comment from their first meeting so long ago.

“Is that tea?” John gestured at the cup in Sherlock’s hand.

“No, it’s soup. It was a bit hot, should be fine now. Mrs Hudson made it. It’s for you and I will sit here until you consume all of it.”

John was suddenly very hungry. “Thank you.”

Sherlock nodded. “I’ll prepare dinner while you shower.”

“Right. I must..”

“It’s fine, John. You smell..fine. I thought you might like to warm up after that long trip.”

“Sherlock, I-”

Sherlock studied his hands, the flush of embarrassment creeping across his lovely face. “Not now John, please. I’ve learned patience of a sort while you were away and I need to top it off every now and then.”

“All right.” Temporary relief settled in his chest.

John swayed when he pushed himself up from the sofa. Sherlock was at his side to steady him and guide him to the bath. 

“Give a shout if you need anything,” Sherlock offered as he left John to it.

“I will.”

John leaned his forehead against the closed door, allowing the old familiarity to renew itself and replace the fear he’d felt that Sherlock might have turned him away when he’d appeared unannounced on his doorstep. 

When he felt strong enough, he turned from the door to discover extra towels, his old comfortable pyjamas he’d left behind when he fled London, and his dressing gown, freshly washed and neatly folded on the toilet seat. Seeing a pair of warm wollen socks on top of the pyjamas made him tear up again. They were Sherlock’s favorite ones for padding around the flat in the drafty winters.

Exiting the loo, John followed his nose to the kitchen to join Sherlock at the stove. 

“The thing with the peas?”

“Yes. When you were gone I missed it so much I learned to make it from a visual memory I’d filed in my Mind Palace.”

“You missed-”

“No, John, I missed you. I thought if I made something of yours it would help to fill the emptiness. It only made it worse. It didn’t taste like yours. I couldn’t make the tea taste like yours either.”

“It looks fine. Would you like me to season it?”

“Please.”

John pretended to study the consistency of the rice to hide a smile. Amazing. Brilliant. Was it too easy, the way they seemed to weave their relationship back together? His heart flipped in his chest. Fear rose. He tamped it down. Their arms brushed. Sherlock pushed back. 

“No worries, John,” Sherlock said as if he’d read John’s thoughts.

John simply nodded, allowed a silent sigh of understanding to escape his lips. Home. It was good to be here again, with Sherlock.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gently comes the season of love...-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My love to all for the love and joy you have given to me.
> 
> "I am redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship." -Steven Moffat

While John did the washing up-he insisted-Sherlock gathered every pillow, cushion, blanket and duvet in the flat and arranged them just so in front of the fireplace. He wanted to get more blankets from Mrs Hudson’s extra blanket closet, but worried that there might be another episode and he wouldn’t be there when John needed him.

Pleased with himself that their little nest was ready when John finished in the kitchen, Sherlock placed more logs on the fire to keep it burning for another hour or two. 

“This is nice.”

“Join me?”

“All right.”

Slow and easy, Sherlock decided, as John settled beside him. 

“Thank you for finishing our dinner, John. It was better than I remember and infinitely better than I-” He stopped, it wasn’t important to say anything more.

As if they had always done so, Sherlock circled his arm around John’s shoulders and pulled him against his chest. As he’d hoped, John didn’t pull away.

“I thought of you all the time. You were never not in my heart, Sherlock.”

“And you were always in mine, my John.”

“Do we need to talk?”

“Perhaps a bit about how we missed each other. One day, John, we can talk about the anger, but not this day.”

“All right,” John whispered, reaching for Sherlock’s hand.

“When I missed you so much that my chest ached, I would read your private journal.”

John grinned. “Passwords never stopped you.”

Sherlock chuckled. “No, at least not yours.”

“Some things never change.”

“‘It isn’t the place that’s home for me. Sherlock was, is, my home.’ Those were some of the last words you posted to your personal journal after I died and before you met Mary. After that I couldn’t read anything more. I didn’t understand why you had gone away any more than you did when I died. It hurt too much to think about. After all this time, I finally understand how much you were hurt then.” 

“The second wisest man I’ve ever known reminded me of those words. In my anger and loneliness, I’d forgotten. His name was William Scott. No coincidences, remember?”

“Indeed.“

After a long, comfortable silence, Sherlock sighed and held John closer still, resting his chin on John’s fair head.

“I begged the universe. I wished upon a star. I asked for a miracle I had no right to request. Having you home with me is the only wish that has ever come true.” 

As if orchestrated by some supreme being, distance church bells rang out around the city and Christmas wrapped itself around them.

“Merry Christmas, Sherlock. I love you, y’know. Always have.”

“Merry Christmas, John,” Sherlock whispered as he covered John’s mouth with his own. “I love you, too, my Christmas wish come true.”


End file.
